


All I Want for Christmas is You (In an Ugly Holiday Sweater)

by missakwatson



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff, M/M, Mistletoe, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-12 21:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12969141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missakwatson/pseuds/missakwatson
Summary: “Erica,” Stiles said sharply. “I am not asking a cashier who I just met if he’s single and interested. I don’t even know him yet! What if he’s a Marvel guy? Or–” — Stiles paused for dramatic effect — “–an economics major?”Erica rolled her eyes, settling back into her own cushion and pulling out her headphones. “You come here almost every other day, dumbass. Get to know him. We still have three weeks until Christmas break.” She raised an eyebrow at Stiles before turning to her laptop, pointedly ending the conversation.Stiles marveled at how skilled Erica was at challenging him to do things – scary, embarrassing things which usually involved speaking to other people – in a way that made it feel almost impossible to say no. If he blew his shot with this guy, though, there was no way he would live it down. Erica would make sure of it.





	All I Want for Christmas is You (In an Ugly Holiday Sweater)

**Author's Note:**

> 3.7k of holiday fluff and the dynamic duo of Stiles and Erica, written especially for 12 Days of Sterek 2017! Will Stiles work up the nerve to flirt with his hot new barista, Derek Hale? Will ugly sweaters be the key to winter romance? You'll just have to find out...

Really, if anyone asked, he’d say it was all Erica’s fault.

The day they walked into their usual coffee spot and Stiles literally stopped in his tracks at the sight of the beautiful new cashier, Erica immediately got that look on her face – the look that had been responsible for way too many late night shenanigans, questionable alcohol-related decisions, and more failed attempts at picking someone up at a bar than Stiles cared to admit.

It wasn’t just a look. It was a capital-L Look, and over the past four years of their college careers, it always meant trouble.

Stiles did his best not to stare as he ordered a medium latte, ignoring (sort of) both the press of Erica’s single sharp pointer finger nail in his back – _oh no, you go first!_ – and New Cashier’s disgustingly, unfairly delicious looking stubble.

“What,” Erica had teased him as they settled into their favorite couch. “Didn’t want him to know that your usual is a caramel macchiato, _extra caramel_?”

“Shut up,” Stiles muttered glumly, sipping on his depressingly plain drink.

“D’you think he goes to school around here?” Erica asked, eyes twinkling in the conspiratorial way that never really meant good news for Stiles.

“I’ve never seen him before, but it’s not like it’s a particularly small town,” Stiles replied. Beautiful Barista – _was he still a barista if he was only working the register? Whatever._ – looked close to their age, if not a bit older. Maybe he was working on a masters or doctorate. Stiles nobly avoided inserting Dreamy Coffee Guy into every sexy professor fantasy he’d ever had, and turned back to Erica instead.

“Why the hell do you keep looking at me like that? I haven’t even said anything,” he complained.

“Buddy, you don’t have to say anything. I can practically feel the waves of Bisexual Frustration rolling off you.”

“Fine. He’s hot. But there’s no way in hell he’s single, and there’s literally no way of knowing if he’s into guys.” Stiles huffed and leaned back into the ancient, overstuffed couch cushion. The last thing he needed was for a pipe dream crush to ruin the one perfect espresso-and-existential-college-despair spot he had.

“Sure there is,” Erica replied easily.

“Erica,” Stiles said sharply. “I am not asking a cashier who I just met if he’s single and interested. I don’t even know him yet! What if he’s a Marvel guy? Or–” — Stiles paused for dramatic effect — “–an _economics major_?”

Erica rolled her eyes, settling back into her own cushion and pulling out her headphones. “You come here almost every other day, dumbass. Get to know him. We still have three weeks until Christmas break.” She raised an eyebrow at Stiles before turning to her laptop, pointedly ending the conversation.

Stiles marveled at how skilled Erica was at challenging him to do things – scary, embarrassing things which usually involved speaking to other people – in a way that made it feel almost impossible to say no. _At least she only– okay, mostly, uses her powers for good_ , Stiles mused. If he blew his shot with this guy, though, there was no way he would live it down. Erica would make sure of it.

***

“First thing’s first,” Erica declared as they left Emissary Coffee and headed back to campus an hour later. “We need to get a name.”

Ever perceptive, she’d apparently noticed the same thing Stiles had – the new guy’s name tag simply said “I’m in training!” rather than his actual name.

“We?” Stiles had asked, raising his eyebrows at Erica.

“Oh, hush. You know Boyd’s it for me. But watching you sweat is fun, and I’m apparently stuck with you after class every Monday and Wednesday anyway. I gotta keep myself entertained.”

Erica was disarmingly honest as always, but Stiles didn’t find that particularly reassuring. She was right, though. There was absolutely no way of figuring this guy out – or, in their case, poring over his social media – without at least a first name.

Which was why, two days later, Stiles found himself unusually nervous as he and Erica walked to Emissary after their Linguistic Anthropology class. He had no idea if the guy would even be working, but the possibility still nudged at the corners of his thoughts all morning.

Sure enough, Tall, Dark, and Caffeinated was standing behind the counter as Stiles and Erica walked in.

“Play it cool, Stilinski,” Erica murmured as she strode toward the register.

Stiles didn’t have time for a retort before he reached the counter.

“Morning,” said In Training, his voice as surprisingly gentle as Stiles remembered. “What can I get for you?”

“I… um,” Stiles stammered, feeling like his brain was shorting out as he met the other man’s eyes. “Medium latte. For here. Thanks,” he said, recovering his wits in time to continue hiding his obscene coffee sweet tooth.

“Got it. $4.65.”

As Stiles fished in his pocket for a crumpled up five, he decided it was as good a time as any to ask for the new cashier’s name, even if the thought definitely made his palms a little sweaty.

“So,” he asked, aiming for an offhand tone as he handed over the cash, “you’re new, huh?” He gestured at the guy’s name tag, hoping his fairly obvious remark didn’t come across as too obtuse.

Hot Cashier raised his impressive eyebrows, looking down at his own name tag in surprise. Stiles found it enormously endearing, and was glad he apparently hadn’t sounded too stupid.

“Oh, uh, yeah. I just started, actually,” he offered, the corner of his mouth turning up in a small smile.

 _I know_ , Stiles wanted to say. _I come here twice a week and I_ definitely _noticed when you started_ , he thought, almost physically clenching his jaw shut to avoid saying anything incriminating. Instead, he aimed for a casual demeanor, one which felt incredibly artificial given how invested he felt in learning more about the guy.

“Cool! I, uh, I’m here a lot,” Stiles said. _Shit. Shit. Shit._ Barring any self-preservation instincts and hopes at looking remotely cool, Stiles stuck his hand out over the register. “I’m Stiles.”

There were the eyebrows in action again. “Stiles?” he asked, taking his hand. _Jesus fuck_. He couldn’t help but notice how broad and warm the other man’s palm was. _He must be like, a lotion guy. Fuck._

“It’s a nickname,” Stiles replied, smiling at the barista’s amusement. He hadn’t seemed judgmental at all, just surprised at his admittedly unusual name.

“Got it. I’m Derek,” he said, returning Stiles’ smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too, Derek,” Stiles answered. He could have sworn his heart skipped a beat. _Eat shit, Erica._

***

A week and two visits later, Stiles was even more smitten with Derek than he ever thought possible — after all, the guy was literally a stranger. He didn’t say so to Erica, choosing to retain what little dignity he had, but he could tell she saw it. She smirked every time they left class, agreeing without protest on their now-customary visit to Emissary even though he knew she thought their coffee was bitter.

“So when are you gonna make your move, slowpoke?” she teased one morning after Stiles and Derek finished their conversation about the relative merits of lattes versus cappuccinos.

“Nah, man. Ever since I found out it’s really supposed to be a breakfast drink, I just can’t,” Stiles had concluded. Derek smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that made Stiles’ heart feel like it was going to jump out of his chest.

“Whatever you say. I’m secure enough to admit how much I like the foam,” Derek replied. Honestly, _how dare_ he be so endearing?

But Erica was right. Stiles only had two weeks to seduce Derek (or at least get his number) before he left Berkeley for a month. The risk was just too great – after all, what if some beautiful, bubbly girl or handsome, hipster dude won Derek over while Stiles was away? He didn’t let himself consider the possibility that Derek might not even be single at all. _We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,_ he decided, staring openly at Derek’s forearms as he wiped down the counter.

“ _Hey!”_ Erica said, snapping her fingers inches away from Stiles’ cheek. “I’m talking to you, and you also look like a creep.”

“Sorry,” Stiles said, setting down his mug. “I can’t help it. Just _look_ at him,” he whined, slouching back into his chair.

Erica crinkled her nose. “Too bushy for me. But he’s definitely your type.”

Stiles couldn’t even argue. Those eyebrows and that beard… _did_ things to him.

“I just don’t know,” Stiles said, gazing thoughtfully down at his latte. “I really lost my steam when I prom-posaled Lydia Martin in front of the entire school during the senior year holiday choir concert.”

Lydia had pulled Stiles aside and politely but firmly refused — after pointing out that prom was still four months away. Honestly, his pride was still a little bruised.

“And Lydia is still one of your best friends,” Erica argued. “You’re not a wimp, Stilinski. And you clearly like this guy, since you’ve tailored your caffeine consumption and weird idiosyncratic conversation topics to his work schedule. I haven’t had to listen to you talk about M.C. Escher or _Overwatch_ in like, a week. That’s practically a record.”

Stiles sighed. “You’re not wrong.” He furrowed his eyebrows and paused for a beat, his shoulders jumping as an idea hit him.

“Wait, dude. I think I might have thought of something.”

***

Getting Scott to agree was easy – after all, as long as he didn’t have to do any of the planning for a party, he was always pretty much the most easy going roommate ever. _Perks of being best friends since birth_ , Stiles mused as he sat down next to Erica in class the next Monday.

“What’d Scotty say?” she asked, raising her eyebrows at Stiles’ visible excitement.

“Stiles and Scott’s Ugly Sweater Extravaganza is a go,” he said, a surge of triumphant excitement racing through him.

Erica laughed. “Well, Boyd and I will be there. Can’t guarantee I’ll get him in any other sweater than a solid black one, but we’ll be there. What if your coffee boy doesn’t show, though?”

“Erica. It’s the end of the semester. Everyone needs an excuse to get drunk, and _everyone_ loves an ugly sweater party.”

“What if he’s Jewish? Wiccan? A holiday-hating atheist?” Erica countered, grinning even as she challenged Stiles’ idea.

“Okay, for one, I’m half Jewish. Ugly sweater parties are ecumenical, and I know for a fact you’ve been an atheist since you were six,” Stiles replied.

Erica leaned back in her seat. “Alright, then. I’ll leave you to it.”

***

Stiles’ anxiety kicked into overdrive during class. He didn’t take a single lecture note, instead finding himself imagining every possible outcome for the conversation he was about to have with Derek. By the time he walked into Emissary an hour and a half later and saw Derek look up from the register with a smile, he was pretty sure fainting from nerves was a completely plausible outcome.

“Hey,” he forced out as he walked up to the counter.

“Hey! The usual?” Derek asked, fingers already poised over the screen.

“Yeah, thanks man,” Stiles replied, grimacing internally at the reality that Derek thought _a basic boring latte_ was his regular. As Derek tore off his receipt and handed it to Stiles – _why do I even get a receipt anymore? –_ he decided he might as well shoot his shot. _Speak now, Stilinski, or wear your ugly sweater in peace._

“Hey, uh, by the way, I was just wondering…” Stiles paused and cleared his throat. Derek looked up at him, expectant in a way that encouraged him to just go ahead and ask.

“My roommate and I, we’re, uh, we’re having an Ugly Sweater Party this weekend. You know, before finals week. Well, I don’t know if you know, because I don’t know if you’re a student, but… yeah. And it’s like, totally non-denominational. Not a Christmas party. Which is fine! If you’re into that! But… I just wanted to let you know, if, you know… you wanted to come?” Stiles winced, trailing off as he felt himself begin to ramble. _Nice. Really sold it there, Stiles._

To his eternal, undying, impassioned relief, Derek _smiled_. “I have some papers to finish up for next week, but that sounds great,” he said, speaking carefully and calmly like he always did.

“Oh! Sweet! Awesome! Uh, what’s your… hey, what’s your last name? If you have a Facebook, you know, so I can add you to the event,” Stiles said quickly, trying desperately not to sound like the _total creeper_ he knew Erica would call him.

Derek, miraculously, was _still smiling_. “Hale. Derek Hale. And thanks, man. I’ll be sure to drop by.”

As he walked away from the counter, Stiles was sure to angle himself away from Derek so he wouldn’t see the triumphant middle finger he directed at Erica. Stage one was complete: Operation Ugly Sweater was a go.

***

  
They’d managed to wait until they left Emissary, but Erica and Stiles prepared themselves almost ceremonially to comb through Derek’s Facebook profile. There were snacks. Erica brought her comfiest blanket. They even had tissues, just in case Stiles’ hopes and dreams were completely crushed.

 _Derek Hale_ , Stiles typed into the search bar, holding his breath as he hit Enter.

“There he is!” Erica exclaimed as the results appeared, finally betraying her own excitement.

“Fifteen mutual friends,” Stiles noted, clicking on his profile. “It looks like mostly History department people. I wonder if that’s what his degree is in.”

Stiles’ excitement faltered as he examined Derek’s profile picture. It was a selfie of Derek, his face pressed next to that of a beautiful, smiling woman with dark hair and warm brown eyes.

“ _Click on it,”_ Erica demanded breathlessly. “Stop freaking out. That definitely looks like his sister.”

The photo was dated June 15, and – there it was. _With Laura Hale at —_

_At Berkeley Pride._

Stiles and Erica turned to look at one another, neither daring to say a word. Stiles broke the silence first.

“No. Okay. Cool. He’s not a homophobic asshole then,” he said, not that he ever would have pegged Derek as one. “But maybe his sister is gay?”

“I mean, maybe. But he has glitter on his cheeks, Stiles. Deliberately. And a bunch of Mardi Gras beads. Who _knows_ who he kissed to get those,” she said, nudging Stiles’ shoulder with her own and wagging her eyebrows suggestively. Stiles felt his face heat.

“Maybe. Okay, this is weird. I’m just going to friend him, and add him to the party.”

“Yeah, yeah. But you should at least _see_ if his likes are visible. You know, for science.”

***

Derek accepted Stiles’ request a few hours after he sent it, and, upon further examination, had liked a few different pride groups as well as the new Justice League movie, which Erica was quick to point out.

His profile also definitely listed that he was single.

“Okay, okay, cool. Hot guy. Nice, funny, smart, most likely queer hot guy. Coming to my party. Cool,” Stiles muttered, launching himself off his couch and absent-mindedly moving to straighten up the piles of books littering the living room floor.

“God, this house is a mess. Why didn’t we buy any bookshelves?”

“Stiles. Chill. You’re gonna be fine. If–” Stiles turned to give Erica a sharp look at the “if.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt or disappointed if he doesn’t show! _If_ or _when_ he comes, he’s not going to judge you for using milk crates as bookshelves. I mean, probably not,” she said firmly, staring Stiles down in her unsettlingly incisive manner.

“I know. I know, I just…” Stiles sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face.

“You like him, and you don’t want to fuck it up. I get it. Don’t worry. That’s what you have me for.”

***

The night of the party, Stiles was almost vibrating with anticipation. He reminded himself repeatedly that it was okay if Derek didn’t end up coming. People got busy, especially before finals week. And now that Stiles knew for sure he was a student, he was sure Derek was working hard to balance his grades and his social life like the rest of his friends.

10:00 p.m., the party’s official start time, came and went with no sign of Derek.

“Dude, no worries! You don’t want to get it on with someone who comes to parties on time anyway, man!” Scott said, his cup of spiked cider sloshing dangerously as he clapped Stiles on the back.

“You’re right. Also, please never say ‘get it on’ again,” Stiles replied, navigating his way through the partygoers to the kitchen to grab another drink.

“’S open,” he called at a knock on the door, fully engrossed in fishing through the fridge for a beer that wasn’t Keystone or Pabst Blue Ribbon. He may have been a cheap college student, but he had _some_ standards, thank you very much.

When he slammed the fridge door shut and turned around, he nearly yelped as he saw who was suddenly standing in the kitchen with him: Derek Hale.

“Hey! Shit! Um, hi!” Stiles stammered, wiping the condensation off his hand and offering it to Derek.

Derek smiled easily, taking Stiles’ outstretched hand as an opportunity to pull him into an incredibly sexually frustrating bro-hug.

“Hey, Stiles. I brought some beer,” Derek replied, holding up the six pack of craft ciders he was carrying in his other hand.

“Thanks, man. You can stick it wherever,” Stiles said, sucking in a breath at his completely one-sided double entendre. _We are_ not _going there. At least not right now_.

Derek shrugged off his jacket, a worn-in looking leather one which emphasized the broadness of his shoulders. What was underneath was even better: a truly noxious red and green Fair Isle vest, complete with festive silver thread striped throughout.

“Wow. Nicely done,” Stiles remarked with a laugh.

“Not too bad yourself,” Derek said, gesturing at Stiles’ polyester menorah monstrosity.

“Thanks! It lights up,” he said, pressing the hidden power button for full effect.

Derek’s eyes did that _horribly unfair_ _crinkling thing_ again, his laugh stirring the nerves Stiles had valiantly tried to squash with the beers he had shotgunned earlier.

“I’m truly impressed, Stiles. That’s amazing,” he said. “Is there anywhere I can put this?” He gestured with his jacket, reminding Stiles that crush or not, he was still supposed to be a good host.

“Oh! Yeah! You can put it in my room,” Stiles said, leading Derek out of the kitchen and into the narrow hallway. Making his bedroom the coat room had been Erica’s _completely innocent_ idea, but Stiles wasn’t bold enough to assume Derek would end up in there for any extended amount of time. Honestly, he was so nervous to actually be in Derek’s presence at all that he wasn’t even sure what he would do if he – well, he didn’t need to think about that right now.

As he opened the door and Derek brushed past him, Stiles couldn’t help but notice how soft he looked in his admittedly hideous sweater. His stubble had turned into a thick, neat beard, and his glasses were just downright nerdy. _Fuck. I am so, so dead._

When Stiles snapped himself out of his own thoughts, he was surprised to find Derek standing in the middle of his room, looking at Stiles expectantly. Noting his apparent confusion, Derek simply pointed to the sheet of paper taped above the door.

Stiles squinted at the notebook paper, heart pounding as its meaning dawned on him. “MISTLETOE!!!,” it read in Erica’s neat block handwriting, with a hastily scrawled branch drawn underneath it.

“Fuck,” he muttered, burying his head in his hands. Derek just laughed. Stiles was vaguely aware of the other man stepping ever-so-slightly closer toward him.

“Is that directed at anyone in particular?” he asked, his tone light.

“I… Erica… She might have an agenda,” he said, boldly taking Derek’s lead and inching just a step closer.

“And what might that be?” Derek said, eyebrows raised.

“There’s this guy–” Stiles noticed Derek’s nearly imperceptible smirk at the word _guy_ – “who she really wants me to get together with.”

“Yeah?” Derek asked, taking yet another incremental step forward. “Is he here yet?”

Stiles sucked in his breath. _This is it, Stilinski._

“Yeah, actually, he just got here,” Stiles said, willing his voice not to shake.

The next five seconds seemed to happen in slow motion. Derek closed the last few inches between them and gently rested a hand on Stiles’ waist. He paused for a beat, ensuring Stiles knew he had the opportunity to break away if he wanted.

He didn’t.

He brought his hand up to the back of Derek’s neck, absently noting that his hair was just as soft as he had imagined.

“Well then,” Derek murmured, voice almost a whisper. “Who am I to resist?”

The first kiss was slow and heart wrenchingly tender. Derek pressed his lips to Stiles’, pulling him against his chest in a devastatingly sexy move. Stiles kissed back, his tongue gently meeting Derek’s yielding mouth. They kissed for what felt like hours, even though Stiles knew it was only a minute, if that.

He pulled away for a gulp of air, meeting Derek’s eyes and reveling in his blown pupils.

“Was that okay?” Derek asked softly, loosening his hold on Stiles’ waist. Stiles determinedly stepped back into his close embrace, and Derek smiled as Stiles wrapped his hands around his shoulders.

“Totally. Yes. Very okay. I think we should do it again, though. You know, for science,” he said, Erica’s teasing words echoing in his mind.

“Science. Right. I can get behind that,” Derek replied, grasping Stiles’ chin before kissing him deeply, _purposefully._

Erica and Scott assured them later it was a great party, even if a couple guests seemed a bit scandalized by the two guys making out in the coat room. They’d survive. After all, who were Stiles and Derek to defy the will of Erica’s mistletoe?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello, friends! This was so fun to write! I hope you enjoyed, and I would love for you to join me on Tumblr on my Teen Wolf blog, sourwolfandlionheart! Love y'all so, so much and I hope you have a truly restorative and joyful holiday season, however you celebrate it.


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